The Two Twilights

The Two Twilights

PREFACE

The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the magazines and not heretofore collected.

For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine and of the Yale Review.

HENRY A. BEERS.

THE THANKLESS MUSE

The muses ring my bell and run away.I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen:You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay;And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean.When I was young you used to come and stay,But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seenWhat tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day!How many a summer evening have ye beenSitting about my door-step, fain to singAnd tell old tales, while through the fragrant darkBurned the large planets, throbbed the brooding soundOf crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring;And in the meads the fire-fly lit her sparkWhere from my threshold sank the vale profound.

BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS

So late and long the shadows lieUnder the quadrangle wall:From such a narrow strip of skySo scant an hour the sunbeams fall,They hardly come to touch at allThis cool, sequestered corner where,Beside the chapel belfry tall,I cultivate my small parterre.Poor, sickly blooms of Academe,Recluses of the college close,Whose nun-like pallor would beseemThe violet better than the rose:There's not a bud among you blowsWith scent or hue to lure the bee:Only the thorn that on you grows —Only the thorn grows hardily.Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soonThe way to blush? Do you forgetHow once, beneath the enamored moon,You climbed against the parapet,To touch the breast of JulietWarm with a kiss, wet with a tear,In gardens of the Capulet,Far south, my flowers, not here – not here?

THE WINDS OF DAWN

Whither do ye blow?For now the moon is low.Whence is it that ye come,And where is it ye go?All night the air was still,The crickets' song was shrill;But now there runs a humAnd rustling through the trees.A breath of coolness wakes,As on Canadian lakes,And on Atlantic seas,And each high Alpine lawnBegin the winds of dawn.

ANACREONTIC

I would not beA voyager on the windy seas:More sweet to meThis bank where crickets chirp, and beesBuzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.I would not bideOn lonely heights where shepherds dwell.At twilight tideThe sounds that from the valley swell,Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,Are sweeter farThan music of cold mountain rills.The evening starWakes love and song below, but chillsWith mist and breeze the gloomy hills.I would not wooSome storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.Soft eyes of blueAnd sudden blushes unawareDo net my heart in silken snare.I do not loveThe eyrie, but low woodland nestOf cushat dove:Not wind, but calm; not toil, but restAnd sleep in grassy meadow's breast.

BUMBLE BEE

As I lay yonder in tall grassA drunken bumble-bee went pastDelirious with honey toddy.The golden sash about his bodyCould scarce keep in his swollen bellyDistent with honey-suckle jelly.Rose liquor and the sweet pea wineHad filled his soul with song divine;Deep had he drunk the warm night through:His hairy thighs were wet with dew.Full many an antic he had playedWhile the world went round through sleep and shade.Oft had he lit with thirsty lipSome flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip,When on smooth petals he would slipOr over tangled stamens trip,And headlong in the pollen rolled,Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold.Or else his heavy feet would stumbleAgainst some bud and down he'd tumbleAmongst the grass; there lie and grumbleIn low, soft bass – poor maudlin bumble!With tipsy hum on sleepy wingHe buzzed a glee – a bacchic thingWhich, wandering strangely in the moon,He learned from grigs that sing in June,Unknown to sober bees who dwellThrough the dark hours in waxen cell.When south wind floated him awayThe music of the summer dayLost something: sure it was a painTo miss that dainty star-light strain.

WATER LILIES AT SUNSET

Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hourWhite lily flocks that edged a lonely lakeAll rose and sank upon the lifting swellThat swayed their long stems lazily, and lappedTheir floating pads and stirred among the leaves.And when the sun from western gates of dayPoured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame,So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowedLike roses morning-blown in dewy bowers,When garden-walks lie dark with early shade.That so their perfumed chalices were brimmedWith liquid glory till they overflowedAnd spilled rich lights and purple shadows out,That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its wavesIn tints of violet and ruby blooms.But when the flashing gem that lit the dayDropped in its far blue casket of the hills,The rainbow paintings faded from the mere,The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed,While, paling slow through tender amber hues,The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white,And wanly shivered in the evening breeze.When twilight closed – when earliest dew-drops fellAll frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts,They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink,When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarmsThe untrod wildness of their virgin breasts;Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping lowTheir folded beauties in the gloomy wave,They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep.But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn,Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole,Across the silent lake, the winding shores,The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes,The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed,And dusky woodlands where the night came down.

BETWEEN THE FLOWERS

An open door and door-steps wide,With pillared vines on either side,And terraced flowers, stair over stair,Standing in pots of earthenwareWhere stiff processions filed around —Black on the smooth, sienna ground.Tubers and bulbs now blossomed thereWhich, in the moisty hot-house air,Lay winter long in patient rows,Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows:Tuberoses, with white, waxy gemsIn bunches on their reed-like stems;Their fragrance forced by art too soonTo mingle with the sweets of June.(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that stealsFrom ashes of the gilt pastilles,Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings,In dim saloons of eastern kings.)I saw the calla's arching cupWith yellow spadix standing up,Its liquid scents to stir and mix —The goldenest of toddy-sticks;Roses and purple fuchsia drops;Camellias, which the gardener cropsTo make the sickening wreaths that lieOn coffins when our loved ones die.These all and many more were there;Monsters and grandifloras rare,With tropical broad leaves, grown rank,Drinking the waters of the tankWherein the lotus-lilies bathe;All curious forms of spur and spathe,Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn,There in the fresh New England morn.But where the sun came colored throughTranslucent petals wet with dew,The interspace was carpetedWith oriel lights and nodes of red,Orange and blue and violet,That wove strange figures, as they met,Of airier tissue, brighter bloomsThan tumble from the Persian looms.So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell,From the board's edge the goblet fell,Spilled from its throat the purple tideAnd stained the pavement far and wide.Such steps wise Sheba trod uponUp to the throne of Solomon;So bright the angel-crowded steepWhich Israel's vision scaled in sleep.What one is she whose feet shall dareTread that illuminated stair?Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair?Oh listen! In the morning airThe blossoms all are hanging still —The queen is standing on the sill.No Sheba she; her virgin zoneProclaims her royalty alone:(Such royalty the lions own.)Yet all too cheap the patterned stoneThat paves kings' palaces, to feelThe pressure of her gaiter's heel.The girlish grace that lit her faceMade sunshine in a dusky place —The old silk hood, demure and quaint,Wherein she seemed an altar-saintFresh-tinted, though in setting oldOf dingy carving and tarnished gold;Her eyes, the candles in that shrine,Making Madonna's face to shine.Lingering I passed, but evermoreAbide with me the open door,The doorsteps wide, the flowers that standIn brilliant ranks on either hand,The two white pillars and the vineOf bitter-sweet and lush woodbine,And – from my weary paths as farAs Sheba or the angels are —Between, upon the wooden sill,Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still.

AS YOU LIKE IT

Here while I read the light forsakes the pane;Metempsychosis of the twilight gray —Into green aisles of Epping or ArdenneThe level lines of print stretch far away.The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves;A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn,A breath of violets from the mossy pathsAnd hark! the voice of hounds – the royal horn,Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep,Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall;As, riding two by two between the oaks,Come on the paladins and ladies all.The court will rest from chase in this smooth gladeThat slopes to meet yon little rushy stream,Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads,And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam.The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds;The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs;The new-slain quarry lies upon the turfWhereon but now he with the herd did browse.The silk pavilion shines among the trees;The mighty pasties and the flagons strongGive cheer to the dear heart of many a knight,And many a dame whose beauty lives in song.Meanwhile a staging improvised and rudeRises, whereon the masquers and the mimesPlay for their sport a pleasant interlude,Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times.Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood;Down some far-winding gallery the deer —The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show —Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear.They use no traverses nor painted screenTo help along their naked, out-door wit:(Only the forest lends its leafy scene)Yet wonderfully well they please the pit.The plaudits echo through the wide parquetWhere the fair audience upon the grass,Each knight beside his lady-love, is set,While overhead the merry winds do pass.The little river murmurs in its reeds,And somewhere in the verdurous solitudeThe wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note,An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood.As runs the play so runs the afternoon;The curtain and the sun fall side by side;The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come;Then homeward through the darkening glades they ride.

THE OLD CITY

Ancient city, down thy streetMinstrels make their music sweet;Sound of bells is on the air,Fountains sing in every square,Where, from dawn to shut of day,Maidens walk and children play;And at night, when all are gone,The waters in the dark sing on,Till the moonrise and the breezeWhiten the horse-chestnut trees.Cool thou liest, leisured, slow,On the plains of long ago,All unvexed of fretful tradesThrough thy rich and dim arcades,Overlooking lands belowTerraced to thy green plateau.Dear old city, it is longSince I heard thy minstrels' song,Since I heard thy church-bells deep,Since I watched thy fountains leap.Yet, whichever way I turn,Still I see the sunset burnAt the ending of the street,Where the chestnut branches meet;Where, between the gay bazaars,Maidens walk with eyes like stars,And the slippered merchants goOn the pavements to and fro.Upland winds blow through my sleep,Moonrise glimmers, waters leap,Till, awaking, thou dost seemLike a city of a dream, —Like a city of the air,Builded high, aloof and fair, —Such as childhood used to knowOn the plains of long ago.

AMETHYSTS

Not the green eaves of our young woods aloneShelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed;In the hard quartz, by some old April sown,Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst."Here's pansies, they're for thoughts" – weak thoughts though fair;June sees their opening, June their swift decay.But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare,Whose patient crystals colored day by day.Might I so cut my flowers within the rock,And prison there their sweet escaping breath;Their petals then the winter's frost should mock,And only Time's slow chisel work their death.If out of those embedded purple bloomsWere quarried cups to hold the purple wine,Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumesWere cooled with radiance of that gem divine.Might I so wed the crystal and the grape,Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor,Delirium should take on immortal shape,Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever.

KATY DID

In a windy tree-top sitting,Singing at the fall of dew,Katy watched the bats a-flitting,While the twilight's curtains drewCloser round her; till she onlySaw the branches and the sky —Rocking late and rocking lonely,Anchored on the darkness high.And the song that she was singing,In the windy tree-tops swinging,Was under the tree, under the treeThe fox is digging a pit for me.When the early stars were sparklingOverhead, and down belowFireflies twinkled, through the darklingThickets she heard footsteps go —Voice of her false lover speaking,Laughing to his sweetheart new: —"Half my heart for thee I'm breaking:Did not Katy love me true?"Then no longer she was singing,But through all the wood kept ringing —Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love theeAnd the fox is digging a grave for me.

NARCISSUS

Where the black hemlock slants athwart the streamHe came to bathe; the sun's pursuing beamLaid a warm hand upon him, as he stoodNaked, while noonday silence filled the wood.Holding the boughs o'erhead, with cautious footHe felt his way along the mossy rootThat edged the brimming pool; then paused and dreamed.Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed,Half like the naiad of the stream below,Suspended there between the water's flowAnd the green tree-top world; the love-sick airCoaxing with softest touch his body fairA little longer yet to be contentOutside of its own crystal element.And he, still lingering at the brink, looked downAnd marked the sunshine fleck with gold the brownAnd sandy floor which paved that woodland pool.But then, within the shadows deep and coolWhich the close hemlocks on the surface made,Two eyes met his yet darker than that shadeAnd, shining through the watery foliage dim,Two white and slender arms reached up to him."Comest thou again, now all the woods are still,Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hillCalls her Narcissus? Would her voice were thine,Dear speechless image, and could answer mine!Her I but hear and thee I may but see;Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me;For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid,Thy love the substance is and my love shade.Alas! for never may I kiss those dumbSweet lips, nor ever hope to comeInto that shadow-world that lies somewhere —

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